


A Temporary Situation (light will soon be shed)

by flashindie



Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: F/M, Prompt Fill, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:47:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24016192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flashindie/pseuds/flashindie
Summary: Hey look, it's another tumblr prompt fill compilation.
Relationships: Beth Boland/Rio
Comments: 41
Kudos: 237





	1. Prompt: please don't go + jesus fucking christ

“Jesus fuh - - ”

She sucks in a wet breath, squirming back against the hard concrete floor of the basement, the pain at her shoulder sharpening with every movement, every pulse, every rapid, pinging thought. Blinking, golden spots appear before her eyes, and they remind her briefly of fairy tales she’s read to her daughters, one only the other night – something set in Australia, and what had they called them?

Min Min Lights.

That’s right.

Her head lolls back, only to be caught in a big hand.

“’ey, c’mon now,” his voice sounds, hoarse above her. “You said you’d stay with me, didn’t you? Ain’t backin’ out of a promise now, are you?”

Beth shakes her head, or tries to. Can’t quite find the energy to, and his hand is too easy to sink back into. Big enough it cradles the back of her head entirely, his fingers pressing almost gently into the skin just above her ears.

And it’s ironic, she knows it is, the bullet lodged in her shoulder. Shouldn’t she need two more? For karma to really punctuate her point? Beth almost says it as she feels her body being slid back against the concrete floor, feels Rio’s hand slide out from under her head, feels it meet the cold wall instead, and she knows he’s propped her somewhere. Knows it again as he undoes the top few buttons of her blouse and pries it as gently as he can away from her shoulder.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

It was supposed to be a routine drop with an old associate of his. Supposed to be quick, get-in-get-out. A sportsbag full of funny money left in an empty hotel suite, while Rio met with the guy in the bar, only the hotel suite hadn’t been empty, and the guy hadn’t been in the bar to meet him.

She gasps as he presses something to her shoulder, the pain at the pressure shooting through her shoulder, and she frantically blinks back tears as Rio shushes her softly, shifting in his crouch over her. It’s enough for a wave of nausea to roll through her head, lurch her stomach, bile to knock at the backs of her teeth, and she rocks her head sideways, ignores the pain as she vomits all over the concrete floor.

Above her, there’s another gunshot, and right, she thinks, spitting out the last of her lunch (Rio’s hands are in her hair now, pulling it back off her face, out of the line of fire). It’s not over. She’d managed to smash a bottle, managed to shove the jagged end into the guy’s side, take him by surprise. She’d managed to get around him, stumble out of the hotel suite, get in the elevator.

It hadn’t taken Rio long to find her.

She wonders if it ever would.

But Mick was still up there, Bullet and Cisco too, and the guy had his own guys who had their own guys, like somebody somewhere had some gangbanger photocopier, and could just print them out over and over and over and - -

Beth hiccups, and Rio grunts, his hand going under her good shoulder, dragging her sideways, away from the puddle of her vomit.

Is this what it had been like for him, she wonders, blinking hazily up at him, and maybe that was the wrong choice, because he’s staring at her. His eyes big and dark, his eyelashes too long and his mouth hanging open, and he looks _mad_ , which isn’t fair. It’s not her fault

“All your plans suck,” she tells him, and Rio blinks at her, like she’s pulled him from his own thoughts too, and it takes him a moment to collect himself, but when he does, he pops one of his eyebrows, tilts his chin down in that way that’s sort of patronizing and sort of amused and sort of all about amusing _her_ , and something in her tightens.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yup,” she says, and god, the next time she blinks, it’s harder to open her eyes again. “They don’t work.”

“Don’t work when you involved,” he replies easily, putting a little more pressure on her wound. There’s another shot, then a thud, of someone hitting the floor above them, and Rio jerks his head up, staring and Beth looks at his chest, and she thinks - - she thinks:

Shoulder.

Lung.

Spleen.

“Are you going to leave me?” she asks, the words finding her tongue before she can stop them, and Rio jerks his head down to look at her again, and she can’t explain it. The look on his face.

The look on hers.

But she remembers leaving him on the floor of his loft, Turner crouched over him, like Rio’s crouched over her now. Remembers her hands shaking, remembers falling on her ass on the staircase because she couldn’t get her legs to work, remembers the sound of the bullets hitting him – the only sound she could hear over the blood rushing in her ears.

And Rio’s just staring at her still, his eyes darting sideways to his hand on her shoulder, and his weight shifts there, lighter, like he wants to pull away, then pushes harder again, almost punishing, and Beth closes her eyes at the swell of pain at her shoulder, in her chest, yawning in her gut.

“Please don’t go,” she mumbles again, and Rio huffs above her, and when she opens her eyes this time, he’s shaking his head. He waits until she looks at him properly before he talks.

“You think I’m gonna let anyone else take you out?” he asks her. “After all the shit you put me through? Nah, mama, that ain’t happenin’.”

And it’s so sudden, the bubble of laughter in her throat, because how the hell did she get _here_? But before she can stop herself, her hand jerks up, covers his at her shoulder, cups the back of his hand, her fingers clammy, small at his knuckles, and she sees his eyes dart down to them, sees him wet his lips, rock his jaw a little, shift his weight from where he’s crouched over her, and she thinks maybe she could do this. Maybe she _can_.

“Next time I’ll stay too,” she tells him, breathless, and he blinks up at her again, gaze tearing away from their hands at her bleeding shoulder, a grin cracking over his face, like he can’t quite stop it.

He stares, blinks a little slowly, arches one of his thick eyebrows.

“Oh, there gonna be a next time?”

And, well.

Beth smiles, knocks her head a little against the wall behind her, fumbles her free hand sideways to steady herself, narrowly avoiding the puddle of vomit.

“Isn’t there always with us?”


	2. Prompt: ‘we’re not supposed to be doing this’ kiss + ‘fuck you’ kiss.

“Okay, you know what?” Beth says, feeling Rio’s hands slide down towards her hips, her gaze still focused ahead at the whir of the machine, practically bouncing against the court floor. “You do _not_ get to - - ”

She sucks in an irritated breath when his hand slides up just beneath the hem of her sports tank, his fingers shifting to caress the skin just above her hip. She shifts a little, and Rio hums, his breath too warm, too pleasant against her neck as he loads his voice with innocence to say:

“To what?”

The tennis ball spits out of the machine with a crack, careening towards her across the court, and Beth moves, body sharpening, ready for it. Ready to swing, ready for the ball, only - - only Rio bites the hinge of her jaw – _hard_ – making her gasp. She reels back into him, squirmish at the feel of it, and he grabs her, pulling her into his chest at the same time he pivots her out of the way, his free hand yanking the racket from her grip and hitting the ball easily, effortlessly back across the court.

A few of the people watching from the restaurant above clap, impressed, and she _feels_ Rio preen, delighted at it all, as he clutches her to him, and just - - right. It’s enough to make Beth glower, jerking out of his arms and shoving at his chest.

“You said you were going to teach me,” she hisses, a flush finding her cheeks, because god, he _did_. And he’d sounded like he’d meant it too – had tossed it out at the end of a meeting instead of at the start of one for a change – offered it only a few weeks after he’d started insisting they meet at the club on a Tuesday for breakfast for their drops and debriefs, or - -

Okay.

Not meeting at the _club_ exactly.

More meeting at her place the night before, fucking on the blow-up mattress she still calls a bed, because god forbid he ever pay her enough (out of the operation _she_ created) to buy anything better. Or. Well. Okay, maybe he is, but now that Dean’s moved out, her room is the last that needs to be furnished. She’d rather get the kids’ ones organised, then the living room, the kitchen, and - - not the point right now. The point is Rio maybe, occasionally, on these mornings after (not that he sleeps over, except, y’know. When he _does,_ inevitably bitching about her air mattress like he didn’t steal her actual bed), helps her pack the kids into her minivan, and on Tuesdays, when she’s done, she meets him here after.

At the country club.

And he always orders something different, but always borderline obscene, and _always_ off-menu, and she always gets the granola bowl with peanut butter and Greek yoghurt and gingerbread crisps. And then they talk shop, and he gives her some ridiculous timeline and she argues him down to something a little less ridiculous, then they have a coffee, and then - - then he buys her a mimosa and abandons her to play tennis, and look. To be fair, the first few times, she hadn’t stuck around to watch him.

Hadn’t thought to.

Hadn’t _wanted_ to.

Because - - pfft. Why would she? Watch his lean body bound across a court, his back swing, the powerful line of his shoulders, his arms, his gaze focused, the sweat that’d bead at his brow, his temple, just like it did when he - -

Point is, she didn’t watch _right_ away.

But then maybe she did.

And then maybe she sort of entertained the thought of playing with him. Or against him. Or with him against somebody else. Or maybe just - - she has no idea. Just knows the idea of him and her in a game together is something she _likes_ , no matter where they stand on the court.

She brushes the sweat off her own brow, sniffs a little, before crossing her arms over her chest, feeling weirdly naked without the racket as the sun beats down on them, and it’s sudden. The crack of the tennis ball machine, the ball a stripe of green through the midday light, and Rio springs over to it, batting it effortlessly back across the court.

The applause tinkles from above again, and Beth glowers, rocking her jaw. She holds her hand back out for the racket, and Rio looks at her, face cracking into a grin as he gestures her back towards him.

“Sorry, ma,” he hums, and Beth rolls her eyes, staring at his firm grip on the racket, and well, she knows him well enough at this point to know that that isn’t a grip soon to falter.

“I’m serious,” she tells him, and he furrows his brow in faux gravity, nodding, but the grin still peaks at the corners of his lips. With a huff, she glances up at the restaurant above the court, and god, she can already see a few of the patrons staring with renewed interest, because - - because they _know_ him, and apparently Rio teaching anyone is unusual enough, but she can’t help but think he likes it – her eyes darting back to him – having an audience when showing her up.

“I was too,” he tells her when she doesn’t step forwards, and the tennis ball machine cracks, and god, he barely has to look, moving and hitting the ball back with barely a battered move. “I said I’d teach you, yeah?”

He gestures her close again, and with a mistrustful look, she edges closer, letting him manoeuvre her back into position, plastering his sweaty chest against her back. Grabbing her hand, he presses the racket back into it, waiting until her fingers curl around the handle before he drops both his hands to her hips, pushing one forwards, then the other, trying to loosen her up. Beth swallows, her arms stiffening, pulse quickening, his hands warm and firm on her.

“You remember what we talked about? Swing from the body first, then the arms.”

Beth nods, her gaze shifting away from him to fix on the sleek black tennis ball machine on the other side of the court, and Rio hums behind her, his breath warm at her ear, only moving closer as he skims one of his hands up her waist, then trails it down her arm, letting his hand engulf hers on the racket.

“It ain’t about force, it’s about position. Right place, right time. When you starting out, that’s it, right? All you gotta focus on is bein’ there to meet what’s coming at you.”

With a sharp jerk of her chin, Beth stares, watching as the machine chugs back to life, watching it start to whir, a light flicker on at its side. Right place, right time, she tells herself, palm sweating stiff at the racket, hand shifting beneath his on the thing, and she already knows it’ll cramp curled around the steering wheel on the drive home. She shifts her feet out and Rio lets her, his hand not leaving hers as the machine finally spits out the ball.

And god it’s just so _fast_ , a flash of green in the bright light of the day, and she’s ready, she’s ready, only - - only at the last minute, she jerks backwards, her back colliding hard with Rio’s chest, and Rio pulls her arm forwards, pivoting the racket to knock the ball not back, but down, letting it rebound beneath them, then bound slowly behind them, and Beth exhales, gathering her wits when she feels him shake behind her, and just - -

It takes her a minute to realise that he’s _laughing_.

Spinning on the spot, she looks up to find his face flushed with his own amusement, his wide, open smile splitting his face in two, and there’s something warm in her chest at the ease of his look before it bubbles over into white hot anger, because is he laughing _at her?_ After _offering to teach her_? She sneers, which only makes Rio laugh louder, widening his step. Dropping the racket to press against her ass, pull her into him, he gestures with his other hand out to the other side of the court, says “Cut it, man,” to the club attendant, and before Beth can say anything else about it, Rio leans down and kisses her.

And it’s just - - sudden, that’s all. His lips warm, playful at her own as he nips at her lower lip, slips his tongue in, curling around her own, and it’s not like they don’t kiss, they just - - don’t kiss outside of her bedroom, because they’re not a _thing_ or anything. Her fingers find the collar of his polo shirt, curling into each side of it, opening it up just so she can see the bottom talon of the hawk and press the tops of her fingers into his skin, and he purrs, pressing the racket harder against her ass, the movement sending sparks through her, and - - right.

She pulls back, lips wet, her gaze drifting up to the restaurant, at where some of the punters are staring down at them, a mix of disapproval and maybe a little too much approval and just - -

Again.

Right.

“Not here,” she says, and Rio just blinks back at her, a look of faux innocence crossing his face.

“No?”

She huffs out a breath at that, pulling her fingers out of his collar and smoothing her hands down his chest. She tilts her chin down behind her, back towards the racket.

“Give me that, we can try again.”

It’s enough to make Rio shake his head, amusement sprawling into something somehow both more affectionate and more patronising, and before Beth has the chance to arc up and answer, he says:

“Nah, you done.” When Beth blinks up at him, eyebrows raised, he just grins back at her, all teeth. “You ain’t got the aptitude and whatnot.”

At her squawk of outrage, he rocks his hips a little against hers, pressing so tightly into her, her breasts squish a little against his chest, which makes her have to suppress an eyeroll, because god, he has a one track mind, and if the sparks in her are anything to go by, she might too. At least with him. 

“You got other talents, baby, like - -”

Like a lot of things, Beth thinks, eyes darting over his face, seeing the heat in it, but before he can get another word in, and before she can think anymore of it, she surges up onto her tiptoes and kisses him, hard and fast. She feels him pull back a little – both surprised and delighted in that way she likes the best, and she bites his lower lip in reward, feeling him hum, breathless already.

“Like that,” he agrees against her lips, sliding a hand up beneath her shirt, just enough to settle at her waist, but she knows he wants to snake it higher, and Beth lets him, feeling him practically pour into her, feeling him relax, the warm slide of his mouth over hers, and then - -

She spins on the spot, out of his grasp, grabbing the tennis racket clean out of his lax grip as she does it, relishing in his exhale behind her. Bounding up onto her tiptoes, she waves over at the club attendant, gesturing back to the machine.

“We’d like to go again,” she calls, a little too sweetly, triumphantly, feeling more than seeing Rio’s annoyed exhale behind her. “From the top?”


	3. Prompt: JT/Annie/Nancy - T-Shirts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 34. Who would wear “if lost return to…” t-shirt/ Who would wear “I am…” t-shirt?

“What are you doing?”

The words are enough to make Annie glance sideways, to stare across the floor of their bedroom to what’s got to be one of her favourite sights these days – JT, shirtless, an equally shirt-free Dakota in his arms (which 10000% means that the breakfast of pureed apple and cinnamon [kid’s managed to cut what feels like 14 teeth at once, don’t judge] ended about as well as it always did at the moment). Only, y’know, it _would_ be better if JT wasn’t eyeing her so judgementally.

Which isn’t unfair, Annie thinks. She has after all emptied his t-shirt drawer on the bed.

“Looking for your shirt size,” she offers flippantly, and honestly, it should be a _way_ easier task than it is. The guy has a weird thing for cutting off the tags as soon as he gets new clothes – like he’s some sort of anti-label conspiracy theorist (or, y’know, because they _itch_ or whatever, but the point stands).

“Nuh-uh,” he says instantly, striding into the room and dropping Dakota down onto the bed. Annie grins at the toddler, pulls a face, just to hear him shriek with laughter as he rolls into the pile of JT’s suspiciously label-less shirts. “You are _not_ getting us matching shirts for this thing.”

Annie gapes back at him, because - - okay, for starters, how did he _know?_ \- - and second of all - -

“They’re not matching,” she sniffs, but she can’t quite bite back the grin when JT levels her with a deadpan look.

It had been Nancy’s idea after all.

Not the shirt thing, but the _family vay-cay_ , as she put it. After all, they’d all been living together now for the better part of a year, and things were going - - well - - sort of amazingly? Sure, they had their issues – like Nancy wouldn’t know a joke if it booked an appointment and JT made Annie look like she was light on the sarcasm, and Annie was obviously perfect in every way and they were both lucky to have her – but all in all, things had been suspiciously smooth. Plus the sex was amazing, so that was gold star bonuses all round.

What was she talking about again?

OH! Family vay-cay. Right. So living together a year, loved up and shacked up, yadda yadda yadda, Ben about to start his senior year of highschool, and for some reason all of that had like, melded in Nancy’s head in the shape of a long weekend trip to Disneyland?

Whatever, Annie wasn’t complaining. She’s wanted to go to Disneyland pretty much since she could walk, and not even her occasionally lucrative career in crime had offered her the opportunity to do it (which is frankly rude. Beth and Rio went with their 1200 kids after all, even if they’d both gotten home from that particular trip lobster-red with sunburn and covered in mystery bruises and broken up for somewhere between three days and two weeks [who could even tell with them anyway?], but whatever).

“You coming back to this planet any time soon, or - -?”

Annie blinks, refocusing on JT, watching him fold his arms over his bare chest, his eyebrow raised as Dakota babbles happily on the bed beside them, and there’s just something in it, she thinks. In the lines of his face and the bright blasé-ness of his expression, and she just says it:

“God, you’re cute.”

And it’s even cuter, the way he tries to hide the way his lips twitch as he rolls his eyes. He holds out his hand instead in silent instruction, and Annie pulls out her cell, striding over and showing him the shirts.

He’s barely even looked at the thing when he says:

“Nuh-uh.”

Annie gasps, faux wounded, as JT shoves the cell back at her.

“What’s wrong with them?”

“Better question is what’s _right_ with them, bunny, because that shit - -“

“Don’t swear in front of the baby,” Nancy sing-songs, patting her sweaty face with a towel, apparently back from her run just in time to reprimand, and JT twists to look at her as Annie twists to look at Dakota, who’s now chewing on his own arm and it’s weird how much he looks like Greg when he does that. Annie squints at him, and she swears Dakota squints back.

“Say that again when you see what she’s trying to get us to wear at Disneyland,” JT says dryly, and Nancy blinks, says:

“Oh! I already got us outfits!”

Which - - Annie reels around, eyebrows halfway up her forehead as Nancy strides over to the closet (and man, her ass looks good in her running pants), surging up towards the top shelf and pulling out a box. She spins delightedly on the spot, shaking out one of the shirts, and Annie cackles right as JT groans, because oh, this is _so much worse_ than Annie’s idea.

“What?” Nancy asks. “I got one for all of us! The one for Ben might be a bit big though.”

And there is no way in hell they’ll be able to force Ben into this anyway, Annie thinks, staring at the bright yellow t-shirt with the _enormous_ photo of them all Ruby had taken at Stan’s 45th birthday dinner – the picture complete with photoshopped Mickey Mouse ears on all their heads and a huge typescript of THE GANT-MARKS-PRESSMAN FAMILY VACATION 2022 pressed across the back.

“No,” JT says, shaking his head, beelining for the bed and lugging Dakota back into his arms. He turns on his heel out the room, not without waving a hand back in their direction with a sharp _“Nuh-uh.”_

It’s enough to make Annie laugh, and Nancy to drop her arms, annoyed, before looking at the shirt again.

“It’s cute!” she insists, and Annie leans in, pecking her on the lips, and yanking the shirt from her hands instead.

“It’s something,” she replies. “Want to see the ones I was looking at?”


	4. The Champ

“Stop, no, I - - nrgh.”

Beth makes a garbled noise in the back of her throat, finally moving a long, trembling leg up just enough to swing it over Rio’s head in an attempt to roll away from him. It doesn’t exactly go to plan – not when he rolls onto his side with her, using her lifted leg to thrust his bare shoulder up under her knee, keeping her spread open for him.

Or - -

Y’know.

 _On_ him.

It’s enough to make Beth whine, to feel her chest stutter as his fingers hook where they’re still inside her and his tongue darts out to her raw, oversensitive clit again, and the new angle of being on her side somehow just makes everything - - _more_ again, and it’s so good, but - - no, three orgasms back to back is definitely her limit.

She must say it out loud (or maybe she doesn’t, maybe he just hears it anyway), because suddenly Rio’s laughing against her, rubbing at that spot inside her that leaves her toes curling and the arcs of her feet prickling, and Beth keens, wriggles, finally reaches down to him, grabbing at the shell of his ear and yanking _hard._

Rio’s responding grunt is muffled against her, but he moves at least, finally slipping his fingers out of her, wiping them on the bedsheets below them and staring up at her, and god, it’s not _right_ , the sight of him there between her legs. His lips, nose, chin wet with her, his eyes dark and hooded, his lashes mat with sweat, and Beth can feel her mouth hang open a little, feel her tongue dart out, and she’s still trembling when he moves a big hand to caress the outside of the thigh on his shoulder, turning his face to press a soft kiss into the inside of it. Beth’s own lashes briefly flutter shut, and it’s too easy to lose herself to the gentle familiarity of him, and she could sleep like this, fucked out and blissed out, with his soft - -

A sharp pain suddenly blossoms up her body, and Beth squawks, eyes snapping back open to see Rio sinking his teeth into her thigh, and _charming_ , she thinks, scowling down at him. She tightens her grip on his ear again, yanking hard enough he finally lets go.

“You always take things too far,” she tells him in the same tone of voice she tells Jane and Marcus off with, and she knows it isn’t lost on Rio, even as he lets her leg slide off his shoulder and fall gracelessly back to the bed. Within seconds, he’s back on all fours, crawling up over her body until his hands are planted by her nose and the back of her head, at least, they are until she rolls onto her back again, staring up at him with half-lidded eyes.

She couldn’t say what she looked like, or maybe she could. Maybe they’ve fucked enough times in front of mirrors she knows the exact shade of pink that floods her chest now, knows the way her eyes cloud – like a stone’s been dropped in the usually clear water of them, bringing up the silt – knows the way her hair frizzes, her mouth hangs half open, ready for his tongue, teeth, fingers - - whatever. Whatever the image, Rio looks pleased for it, his lips curling at the corner in something between naked affection and lewd intent, and she should predict it, when he drops above her – hands to elbows – closing in, and god, his breath smells like her - - just. Like _her._

Something in her tightens.

Or, at least, it does until the next words out of Rio’s mouth are: 

“How we feelin’, champ?”

Which - -

Beth snorts, eyebrows raising harshly back up at him, but before she can reply, he sinks his hips low, the weight of his hard cock suddenly heavy at her pubic bone.

“You up for another round,” he purrs, mouth an inch from hers. “Or you kissin’ the canvas?”

And maybe it’s a blessing, that she really is still wrecked, because him on top of her usually undoes her, but instead it’s too easy to level him with an unimpressed look and say:

“You are _not_ using boxing terms in bed with me right now.”

She knew he’d been almost _too_ into it again, between watching it with his boys and getting in the ring himself on the weekends. Sure, she thinks, it wasn’t like she wasn’t sort of into the latter. Liked the swagger he got after winning a match, the way his body tightened, the way his bruised knuckles looked cupped between her hands, but the rest of it? Was sort of driving her insane.

“Nah?” he replies, like he knows, eyes drifting down to her lips. “Thought you liked me hittin’ below the belt.”

“Oh my god,” Beth groans, but she can’t quite keep the grin off her face when Rio kisses her, his own lips still slick, his tongue hot, his hips grinding low against hers.

“Thought you liked a counterpunch too,” he murmurs, and she tastes the words more than she hears them, and god, he’s _corny._

(God, if the fact of that isn’t her favourite secret.)

“You want me to start talking about baking when we’re doing this?” she says, sliding her hands around his neck, scratching at the base of his skull in that way she knows he likes, and Rio laughs, breathless, cock twitching between them, and she rolls her eyes in good humour when he finally shifts his weight. He dips his own hand down between them to stroke his cock, and Beth spreads her legs a little for him, unable to entirely hide her smile when he grins down at her, pleased with her offering. 

“Start calling you _chef,”_ she adds, which doesn’t exactly make much sense, but she figures _champ_ doesn’t either, and anyway - - she inhales, feeling Rio line up and slide slowly into her. “Talk about - - ” her nose twitches as he gets a little deeper. “The difference between dry and moist heat cooking.”

And okay, Rio barks on a laugh at that, right against her neck, the wet heat of the breath making her shiver, and right, Beth thinks, wrinkling her nose properly.

“Don’t think we need to worry about _dry_ , darlin’,” he hums, moving his hand to slip easily between her slick folds, and she moves a hand to smack at his shoulder.

“Shut up,” she says, and he laughs again, rolling his hips slowly into her.

“Make me.”

And well.

She does.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Dixie Chicks song, 'Julianna, Calm Down'


End file.
